


Grey Zone I thru III

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-07-31
Updated: 1998-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 17:55:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11340468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Our agent, encouraged by his boss, explores new possibilities.





	Grey Zone I thru III

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

The Grey Zone I: Heaven & Hell by Palinurus

OK people, hang on to your hats: my first M/Sk. With many thanks to all my beta readers. This may upset some of you, though most I assume are used to a little rough play. It's still strictly consensual (because I say so). Part 2 will follow later, unless nobody likes this. Oh what the hell, it's already written, so it will follow anyway... Brenda Antrim, who has mercifully re-materialized, hasn't read it yet but she's OK with my posting it here.   
Happy reading.   
Carla

"The floggings will continue until morale improves"

~.~

The Grey Zone, Part 1: Heaven & Hell. By Palinurus. 

September 1997.

An unauthorized sequel to Brenda Antrim's 'Paybacks'. What follows will make a lot more sense if you read that wonderful story first. It can be found at [archivist's note: url given by author is no longer valid], and at several other websites too.  
ARCHIVE: MSSS OK, other archives please email me first.  
WARNING: Heavily NC-17, consensual though fairly rough M/M sex, including (*gasp*) an enema.   
DISCLAIMER: The characters in this story are the property of Fox and Ten Thirteen Productions. No copyright infringement is intended.   
Comments *please* to 

* * *

His knees were already shaky when he knocked on the door. 

"Come!" Skinner shouted, never a man to waste words. Mulder went in, closing the door behind him. Skinner sat behind his desk reading a stack of papers. "Agent Mulder. Glad you could make it." 

Mulder, who didn't feel he'd had any choice in the matter, couldn't think of an apt reply. He shut up and waited, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other, unable to decide what to do with his hands. 

"Take a seat Mulder, I have to finish this first." 

Great, he thought, some more time to enjoy the suspense. He sat down in one of the chairs far away from the desk. He looked around for a while, studied the non-descript art on the walls, and tried not to wonder what was next. He was so nervous that he could hardly sit still. After a few minutes he got up and walked around the office, pretending to notice new things in a place that hadn't changed in the four years he'd known it. 

Skinner looked up from his work, inscrutable. "Please take a seat, Agent Mulder." More firmly this time. 

He sighed under his breath, swallowed, sat again. Lacing and unlacing his fingers. Aware of Skinner's ploy to crank up the tension, but unable to shield himself from its effects. The room was decidedly warmer than usual. Had Skinner turned up the thermostat in preparation for...? He felt sweat pricking on his back, considered taking off his jacket, decided against it, not wanting to risk another one of those looks. 

The office was so quiet he could hear the fastest hand of the clock on the wall tick away the seconds. He became uncomfortably aware of his breathing, tried to make it a little shallower, a little less loud, but had to give up; he couldn't get in enough air that way. 

Suddenly the AD got up, collecting the papers lying in front of him. Mulder nearly jumped, his heartbeat shot up, his breathing went completely out of control. Jesus Christ, inside for 15 minutes and his nerves were already shot to hell. Calm down, you idiot, he won't kill you but you're well on your way to doing it yourself. 

Skinner looked at him. Mulder thought he saw a shadow of a self-satisfied smile, but it was really hard to tell. His delay tactics were certainly having the desired effect. Mulder had rarely before felt so wound up. 

"Agent Mulder, please get your coat; we're leaving. Meet me in the parking garage." 

His mouth nearly fell open in surprise. Leaving? But... what the hell WAS this? Surely it wasn't going to be a beer-drinking, male-bonding kind of night, or was it? "But Sir, I... I thought we were going... that we would..." Oh god, shut up, please remember to shut up when there's no coherent thought anywhere in your head. 

Skinner waited long enough to make it very clear that he wouldn't find his way out of his sentence. "Agent Mulder, you were doing such an admirable job of being quiet, please try to keep it up a bit longer." 'Please' was never 'please', it was clearly an order. 

"Yes sir." His head reeling with confusion, he picked up his coat from the basement, then went to the underground parking to look for Skinner's car. Skinner was already there, the engine running. He put his coat in the back seat, then got in. 

Skinner drove in total silence. Mulder couldn't stand it. How did people manage to sit next to each other for what seems like an hour and not say a single word? There was always so much going on in his head, the words just spilled out of their own volition. There must be a lot going on in Skinner's head too, but Skinner managed to keep it all to himself. He thought of turning on the radio, but was fairly sure Skinner wouldn't appreciate that. He was also fairly sure that it would set him back another point in tonight's battle of wills. Oh god. 

After another ten minutes of stifling, suffocating silence, he gave up the losing battle. "Sir; where are we going?" 

Skinner looked at him sideways for several seconds, taking Mulder's point chip from the pile and adding it to his own. "We are going to my apartment, Agent Mulder." 

Heartbeat, heartbeat. To his apartment. No beer drinking and male bonding, then. Oh god. Bluffed into silence, he blinked several times, rotated his shoulders where the muscles were so tense they were threatening to cramp, crossed his legs, uncrossed them again, and was really grateful for the sound of the car engine so he could at least breathe as hard as he needed to. Count your blessings. 

He also noticed that in spite of his discomfort, he was getting erect in anticipation of the unknown events ahead. He quickly crossed his legs again, and thought with regret of his coat lying uselessly in the back seat. He couldn't think of any unobtrusive way to close his jacket over his rising nemesis, so he sat as still as possible and thought of the greasy dishes in his kitchen sink. From the corner of his eyes he thought he could see Skinner smile a knowing smile again. But it was hard to tell. 

His agitation increased when the car turned onto the street where Skinner lived. One more traffic light. There's the garage door. Calm your breathing, for god's sake. By the time Skinner turned the car into the reserved bay, he was slightly light-headed from the lack of oxygen. At least I can get to my coat... 

"You can leave your coat in the car, Agent Mulder." 

His shoulders slumped. There was no way he was going to win even a single move tonight. 

They entered the apartment. "You can go upstairs," Skinner said. "The bedroom is the second door on the left. Undress and wait for me there." 

"Um, is there a chance I could get a beer first, sir?" Trying to regain some lost ground. Skinner's mouth wrinkled briefly. "Agent Mulder, please don't forget that we are not here for your amusement. I'll get you a beer, then please take it upstairs and undress." Another 'please'. 

He took his beer and went upstairs. The second door on the left revealed a big, airy room with a magnificent view of the city lights. He decided not to switch on the light; the eerie glow from outside might make things a bit easier tonight. The bed was wide, and both the headboard and footboard could be used to fasten things, ropes, handcuffs, chains... Stop that. He looked around curiously, but didn't dare open any closets or drawers, and there wasn't much to see otherwise. 

Now what? He very much didn't feel like getting naked and then waiting another 15 minutes. On the other hand, if he hadn't undressed by the time Skinner came up, that might be more trouble. He leaned against the wall in the semi-darkness, looked at the view, sipped his beer, and contemplated the situation. 

He heard Skinner talking on the phone and suddenly had a fleeting suspicion that he was talking to Scully and telling her everything that had happened last week, as well as what was going to happen tonight. Get a hold of yourself Mulder. This is still the old world, no matter how strange it looks at the moment. The man is probably calling his mother. This notion sent him into a fit of suppressed giggling that brought tears to his eyes. 

Great Mulder, you're doing great. Oxford psychologist losing it at the thought of his boss placing a phone call to his mother. 

With a start he realized that the voice had stopped. He put down his beer and undressed in record time, almost falling when he tried to remove his pants before he had taken off his shoes, then catching his hands in his shirt cuffs. He was naked except for his shirt that was bundled in a Gordian knot around his wrists, when Skinner came in, now smiling broadly when he saw the scene. A multi-point victory, and trust him to make the most of it. 

Skinner flipped a switch on the wall that lit a spotlight in the ceiling. The center of the bed was now brightly lit, leaving the rest of the room wrapped in darkness. "I wouldn't have guessed that you'd find it so difficult to undress, Agent Mulder. It looks like you need some help." He walked over and swung Mulder around by his shoulders, pinning him against his chest with one arm, and with one finger of his free hand he traced slow lines and circles over Mulder's chest and abdomen, skirting dangerously close to his cock which was quickly coming back to joyful hardness. Mulder's muscles twitched involuntarily under his touch. The hand moved up, touching his nipples with feather-light caresses, and finally came to his throat where it exerted light, then not so light pressure on the jugular, causing Mulder's breath to make a hissing noise in his throat. Mulder started to sweat heavily, willing himself not to panic, his erection already painful, his knees almost buckling. Abruptly, Skinner let go, and still standing behind him, quickly undid the shirt cuffs, then untangled Mulder's hands from the sleeves. 

Skinner gently sat him down on the bed and disappeared into the adjacent bathroom. Mulder tried to recover his breath, to stop his legs from shaking, and to clear his head. He reacted to Skinner's touch as a cat to catnip, reaching out and rubbing himself against any body part that was offered, practically rolling over belly-up and offering himself for anything that might take Skinner's fancy. And he resented it. Another few minutes of those touches and he would have come. He had a very strong suspicion that he wouldn't get off so lightly this time, and the anticipation of whatever Skinner was going to do to him tonight made his shoulders tense to the breaking point once again. 

Skinner came out the bathroom door holding some contraption of transparent plastic. Oh god, that didn't look good at all. That looked positively scary. Then, with a jolt of panic, he recognized what it was. Oh *Christ*! No, that is out of the question. No way. Absolutely no way I'm going to let him do that. 

Skinner put the whole tangle on the bed, far away from Mulder, then walked over and sat next to him. He took his jaw in one hand, bent his head backwards and kissed him, fiercely, possessively. He met a resisting tongue and they battled for several seconds before Skinner, of course, had his way. He probed Mulder's mouth deeply, leaving no corner untouched, asserting his presence until Mulder was heaving with breathlessness. 

"Mulder. I'm going to give you an enema, as a preparation for what we're going to do later. Please lie down on your side and pull your knees up to your chest." There was that infuriating 'please' again. 

No no no, no way, no way... "Sir, I can't do that, really I can't..." That didn't come out as assertive as it should have come out, not by a long shot. Oh god. "Sir, that is really beyond the limits, I won't do this even if you... if you...". Horrified, he saw his next chip go. 

"Even if I what?" 

The bastard knew exactly how far he could go, and how to push him a little bit further. Mulder wasn't ready to sacrifice his job, his obsession, not now that he had already gone so far to save it. 

"Sir, please don't make me do this," he concluded weakly. He knew it was futile. 

"It won't be as bad as it seems. On your side, Mulder." 

He squeezed his eyes shut. He fought an impulse to bolt for the door, to punch his boss in the solar plexus, to yell bloody murder. He sighed deeply several times, trying to get rid of the giddiness that threatened to overcome him. Then he lay down in the pool of light, his back to the plastic monstrosity that leered at him, and pulled up his knees. 

Skinner had become a shadow that moved to the other side of the bed and dug up a little bottle of lube from the bedside drawer. He put some on his finger, then spread Mulder's ass and put some of the cold goo on his twitching sphincter, pushing gently inside a little way. Mulder had tensed up completely, making it difficult to get even one finger inside. He was barely breathing anymore. Skinner reached for the bag, balanced it on Mulder's hip, and took the nozzle into his hand. He deftly inserted it, eliciting a small, breathless gasp, then opened the valve. 

Mulder cried out, arching his back as the water invaded his rectum. Oh god, oh god, this is ten times worse than getting fucked. He felt like he was washed out of his own body, he had to make way for a tsunami, he didn't know which way to turn, where to hide, the water was everywhere, by now it must have filled him, his whole abdomen was awash, and still it kept coming. He twisted on the bed, groaning, sweating, panicked. Skinner held him down until he stopped thrashing, panting heavily, muttering "Oh god, oh god..." The panic subsided slowly and he lay down again, shaking. 

"Don't stop breathing Mulder. Try to breathe normally." 

He tried to ignore the voice that was magnifying his humiliation. He desperately needed to be alone, to recover from his horror, to adjust to this awful, distended feeling of drowning in plenty of air. He covered his head with his arms, wanting to turn on his stomach but painfully aware of the image he'd be presenting then. 

"Mulder." Go away, you motherfucker. "All the water is inside you now," making him squirm, "I'm going to take out the nozzle. Make sure you keep it inside, or things will get very messy." He started to panic again. "No, I can't, wait, please..." Futile again, of course. He felt a little pulling sensation in his anus, then the water threatened to rush out and he clamped down on it, moaning in agony, sweating like a pig. 

"Very good Mulder, very good indeed. Now in another minute or so your bowels will start to cramp. It may be a bit unpleasant but it does no harm. You have to keep it in for five more minutes, then I'll let you go to the bathroom. There's a clock there on the wall." 

Let me go? You'll have to carry me. He felt the first distant crampy sensation crawling around in his abdomen. His rectum was on fire from the pressure to keep the water in, but he didn't dare try to release it even slightly. The first wave of cramp hit him like a fist. He moaned, curled up, then uncurled, couldn't breathe anymore. All of him seemed to have turned into one giant, cramping intestine. He almost forgot about the water, felt a dangerous flowing in his rectum and tensed up again, biting his lip with the effort. Oh god... 

The cramps slowly subsided, leaving him hot and sweaty with relief. Then he noticed Skinner was lying behind him, touching him, holding him, kissing his neck. The contrast between the cramp and this sweet touch brought tears to his eyes. Please god, how much longer? He looked at the clock in disbelief. Barely a minute had passed. Four more, oh sweet Jesus, this will kill me... Skinner's warm body consoled him, belying his guilt of this horror. He leaned back against in, in spite of himself, and let himself be comforted. 

Another wave was forming. He gasped, trying to will it away, but it swept him up despite his pleading and carried him in a haze of pain and tension, miles and miles, then deposited him into Skinner's arms again. From hell straight into heaven, to lie there a few seconds, only to be yanked away again for more cramps, more punishment, more teeth-clenching anxiety about the damned sheets. The last wave left him quaking. 

Skinner half-lifted him to a sitting position. "The five minutes are up." Mulder blinked at him, dazed, shaking, then turned his head painfully and measured the distance to the bathroom door. He would walk even if it killed him, anything rather than asking to be carried like a damned invalid. 

He almost fell when he got off the bed, but after that it wasn't as bad as he had thought. He carefully closed the bathroom door, sat down on the toilet and emptied his bowels. The relief was immeasurable; he wanted to stay there forever, trembling, drawing deep, shaky breaths, relaxing all muscles that had almost been torn from their ligaments. He stepped into the shower, beyond caring about Skinner's opinion on that, and stood, not thinking. 

I'll have to go back in. I can't stay here and he'll come get me out anyway. He shut off the water and dried himself, stood very still for another minute, then went back into the room. Skinner was waiting for him, still completely dressed. He almost had to laugh at that. I've been to hell and back, and he's sitting there in his nicely cut suit. He had definitely ended up on the wrong side of the line again. 

Skinner got up, took him by an elbow and led him back to the bed, then laid him down, once more on his side. Then Skinner took off his tie and shirt, and got on the bed behind Mulder, resuming his earlier caressing, but now his ministrations were intended not to comfort but to arouse. 

Mulder once again felt himself instantly responding to the touches. He felt the heat of Skinner's chest against his back, the pressure of his erection against his ass, and he felt - flattered. Positively flattered. He dimly realized that this was probably exactly how he was meant to feel. He felt Skinner's hand exploring every inch of his body, kneading, probing, stroking, evoking little muscle twitches and tremors everywhere, leaving nothing untouched. He was rolled half on his back, and Skinner kissed him again, hard, long, demanding, his free hand between Mulder's thighs, roughly manhandling him - it was a conquest of territory, nothing more, nothing less. Mulder felt himself bending with the force and relishing in it, being thrilled by it, incredibly aroused, letting himself float wherever Skinner wanted him to go. Wanting to move wherever he was pushed. Wanting to make the small, gasping sounds Skinner drew from him. 

Skinner took his free hand and he suddenly felt the cold steel close around it; then he was rolled over on his stomach, and his hands were cuffed behind him. He slowly crawled out of his trance. Oh no. 

"Pull up your knees," Skinner said, his voice now very husky. Pull up my knees? How can I do that? He awkwardly rolled on his side and pulled up his knees. "Not like that." Skinner grabbed him around his waist with both hands and hauled him up, resting him on shoulders and knees. "Don't move." 

He was suddenly very aware of the circle of light of which he formed the center. Skinner moved off the bed and disappeared into the shadows, leaving him alone and very, very naked. His head was turned to one side, the side where Skinner was not, and he didn't dare lift his torso to turn it to the other side. He wanted desperately to see something, to hear something, say something. To re-establish the lost communication. He heard no sound for a long time, then the rustle of clothes. Then nothing again. He felt completely isolated, exposed not only to Skinner but to the leering eyes of the whole world outside. Come back, oh please, come back, this is too awful. Don't talk. Don't beg. But I can't stand this. I'll die of loneliness, of exposure... 

Then to his immense relief, he felt Skinner move onto the bed again. Moving up behind him. Spreading his knees with his own and keeping them apart. He began to tense up against the inevitable. Skinner's hands stroked the length of his back, and he reached up to those hands, to their warmth, their strength, their company. The hands moved around to his chest, finding his nipples, gently pulling at the hair around them. Mulder made a throaty sound and tried to move with them, but he didn't have much leeway. He moaned in frustration. 

Skinner began kissing his neck, moving around, nipping at his earlobes. The mouth moved down along his spine, accompanied by the hands. Pausing at the small of his back, the hands moved around and ever so gently touched his cock, rubbing slowly, making him rotate his pelvis, in slow, longing movements. The mouth drew a slow, wet circle on his back. The hands departed again, moved back again to his ass, and spread him open. He breathed deeply and braced himself against the pain. 

Instead of pain there was an incredible sensation - warm, moist, soft, unbelievably arousing. He gasped in shock when he realized what was happening. Skinner's tongue was sending trickles of liquid gold through him, traveling to his groin, to his abdomen, to his head. He squirmed in acute embarrassment. Skinner put a hand on his neck and held him down. The trickles grew stronger, turned into a stream. He was panting, dizzy with arousal, reaching out towards the tongue that was now pushing inside, setting him on fire. Then, with mind-numbing suddenness, it disappeared. 

Mulder cried out, enraged, desperate. Skinner let go of him again. The arctic cold was back for an instant, then he felt an arm on his back, a blunt, slippery finger entering him, probing insistently, spreading lubricant, then, seemingly by accident, brushing against his prostate. His hips bucked. The finger was joined by a second, creating a small crackle of pain. Together they manipulated him, tantalized him. They pushed him to the edge, then, scissoring out, pulled him back again painfully, then forward once more. He teetered on the brink, then flew out headlong. The fingers ignited all explosives inside, took away his last shred of dignity as he thrashed and bucked in frantic ecstasy. 

That was Skinner's moment. He should have expected it. The pain of the sudden penetration seared through him. Skinner held him down with his full weight, then pushed hard to move himself further inside against the muscles clamped down on him. It felt like a clash of titans but there was never any doubt about the outcome. Skinner bored his way inside, now pulling back a little bit, now pushing in as hard as he could, grunting with the effort. Mulder was gasping with pain and exertion, all his muscles fighting a futile battle to keep Skinner from going further, to stop him somehow. Eventually Skinner was all the way in, leaning on the other man, panting, holding still long enough to recover from his labor. 

Skinner felt the blood in his cock pulse against its narrow confines. He took in the sight of the other, helpless, beaten, still on his knees below him. The long back, arched in an attempt to reduce the pain. The tightly stretched muscle around his cock. He fastened his mouth on Mulder's neck and began to move, relishing in the soft moans, inching out and in at first; then, as the resistance weakened, halfway, then almost the full length. Mulder was writhing now, trying to escape from the relentless movement. Skinner stopped moving and moved both his hands up along Mulder's thighs, finding him erect once more. He took his cock in a full hand, thumb and index finger curved around the base, and moved his hand in counterpoint to his fucking. Mulder was still struggling, out of breath, in shock from the brutal invasion and his body's response to it. But once again it was an uphill struggle. Skinner kissed his neck again, nibbled at his ears again, and he felt himself give in, relenting to a second orgasm, which left him dizzy, exhausted, trembling. Skinner felt him come, and set a new pace of slow, hard, deep thrusts, gathering the exhausted body in his arms, lifting it up, and coming deep, deep inside with a trembling sigh. 

They lay together for a while, Mulder dazedly staring at the opposite wall, not moving. When Skinner got up and went to the bathroom, he stayed still. His confusion enraged him. This thing was getting completely out of hand. The situation was impossible. Skinner had blackmailed him into this, and he hadn't even given it a thought until now, when it was clear that he'd bitten off more than he could chew. No number of X-files, no peaks of knee-buckling, heart-stopping arousal could outweigh this... this... mortification. This all-out assault on his ego. It was intolerable, unacceptable, unbearable. It simply was too much to handle. Maybe not right now, but tomorrow he would definitely announce that it would have to stop, come what may. 

He was on the verge of getting up to put on his clothes when Skinner emerged from the bathroom. Their eyes met, locked for a long minute. Then Skinner moved. He got back into bed and stretched out full length against Mulder's stiff back. He began stroking Mulder's flanks, tracing his ribs along his chest, ignoring the passive resistance that met him. His hand traveled the expanse of Mulder's abdomen, caressed his upper thighs, gently fondled his cock, moved back up again. 

Mulder heaved a shaky sigh, then leaned back against the warm body enveloping him. He was broke. In full possession of his faculties, he had just handed over his last chips; there was nothing left to bargain with. But it didn't really seem to matter anymore. 

END

Remember, would *love* to hear your comments

 

* * *

 

Here's the next installment of "The grey zone". I hope the formatting works out OK. This one is friendlier than part 1 (in spite of the inauspicious beginning), but slightly unconventional. Happy reading; hope you like it...  
Carla (Palinurus)  
"The floggings will continue until morale improves"

\----------------------------------

Cats by Palinurus. Part 2 in the series "The grey zone".   
WARNING: NC-17, consensual M/M sex with artificial enhancements.   
DISCLAIMER: The characters in this story are the property of Fox and Ten Thirteen Productions. No copyright infringement is intended, no money is made from this.   
Comments always *much* welcomed at 

* * *

"Agent Mulder, please stand up." 

He stood, nervous, silently cursing himself. Why did he always have to have the final word? Why could he never leave well enough alone, give up on a lost cause, respect his limits? Always toeing the line, often overstepping it, and sometimes using up more that his credit. Like now. All Skinner's agents, assembled around the large conference table for the briefing, were looking at him. An unsavory mixture of sympathy, pity, contempt, and morbid curiosity. 

Skinner walked around the table, stood behind him, moving his chair out of the way. "Lean on the table with both hands." 

He started to sweat, heavily. Oh Christ, now what? Surely he can't mean - 

"Agent Mulder. Lean on the table." 

He leaned. And his mind fled out of his body when he felt Skinner's hands move around his waist, to his belt buckle, and undo it. His fly, the one button. The trousers fell to the floor. He could hear a muffled gasp from the audience. His back was sticky with sweat, his forehead itched. He felt himself getting erect. He was panting in panic. Adrenaline fogged his mind. Skinner pulled down his boxers. The assembled agents were very quiet now. He was thinking his erection might be covered by his shirt tails, fought the impulse to look down. Don't look. Don't think. You're not here. 

Skinner leaned against him, reached around again and grabbed his cock with knowing hands, breathing into his neck, pressing his erection against his ass. His colleagues around the table were staring, drinking in the scene. He felt like he was about to faint, to lose his mind. And about to come. The semen would certainly mess up the neat stack of files in front of him. Skinner's hands... the hot leers of all the others... 

He woke up on his stomach, his arms covering his head, trembling with relief, with a raging hard-on. Jesus Christ, this is really getting out of hand. It was Thursday again. He lay still, waited for the thudding of his heart to quiet down. Then he got up and into the shower. Involuntarily thinking back to last Thursday's scene, his helplessness, his surrender to Skinner, sexually and emotionally. Not this. He groped around in his 

mind for another image, found little of use, finally settled for an uninspiring sequence from a porn video. He jerked off quickly and then switched off the hot water, forcing himself to stand in the cold spray for minutes. There, that'll teach you. At least for the next ten minutes. 

When he got to the office, it seemed to him that he was being stared at by everyone in the building. The security guard at the gate; the small group of agents by the water cooler; the people in the elevator; they all seemed to be looking at him speculatively. He felt eyes following him wherever he went. 

He stood next to the coffee machine, waiting for his first cup, when he heard Skinner's footsteps approach. His neck muscles tensed, he tried not to draw his shoulder blades together. A hot flush crept up his cheeks. The footsteps stopped behind him. Without noticing it, he stopped breathing. He had to bend down now to retrieve his coffee cup. How do people bend naturally? He did his best, but knew he didn't quite pull it off. To complete the performance, he almost dropped the cup. Why didn't the bastard say something? Out of the corner of his eye he glanced at the other's legs. Workman's shoes, blue coveralls... He jerked his head around and stared into the face of an unknown man. He heaved a deep sigh, produced a weak smile for the man who looked at him strangely, and fled to his office. 

Scully was sitting behind her computer, typing away. Good old Scully, the normal, balanced, calm counterpoint to his flighty mind. He sat down across from her with a sigh. She looked up, saw him out of breath, slightly disheveled, flushed. 

"Something wrong Mulder?" 

"No, I'm fine Scully, just a bit of a rush to get here." Fortunately, he really was late, thanks to his morning adventure. He'd never admit to anything being wrong in front of Scully. If she pushed him very hard, he might confess to a slight headache. He could die in front of her and maintain it was only a bout of the flu, really, nothing to worry about... It was so silly. But he couldn't help himself. 

She looked at him suspiciously, probably thinking the exact same thoughts he was thinking, and then went back to her work. No chance she'd have woken up with an erotic dream of Skinner doing her at a debriefing in front of everyone. No chance. It took a Spooky to end up in a situation like this, and enjoy it, and get totally paranoid about it, and daydream of nothing else. Oh Christ. 

As the day progressed, he found himself torn between hope and fear. It was 11:30 already, and no word from Skinner. Maybe it was off. Maybe Skinner was away. Maybe he'd found someone else to... no, that was impossible, no-one else would lend himself to this. No-one else was in this situation, could be blackmailed so easily, and trusted to shut up about it, and live with it, and enjoy it. Nevertheless, a sudden, fierce jealousy made breathing difficult for a few moments. 

At 2:30 he couldn't bear it anymore, and called Skinner's secretary. "Hi Kim, it's me, is he in?" 

"I'm sorry agent Mulder, he's left for the day, but he left an envelope for you. I was to give to you at 5, but I guess it can't hurt if you pick it up now." 

Heart pounding, he went up and retrieved the note. It said "8 p.m., my place". To give it to me around 5. What a bastard. He knew that Skinner knew he'd be waiting, be obliged to wait, all day long for this message, although maybe Skinner didn't know exactly what kind of mind frame he'd be in. So tonight is on. His stomach knotted immediately. 

When he sat down at his desk again, Scully said, without even looking up: "Mulder, are you *sure* you're OK? You're acting like you've taken half a pound of cocaine. It even wears *me* out." 

"I'm fine, Scully, really, I promise. Maybe it's the spring coming on." Shut up, don't make excuses, that always looks bad. She knew him far too well, she could read him like a book, it was unnerving. He shifted in his chair, glanced at pages of text without reading a word, shoved files from left to right and back, occasionally attracting a glance from Scully, and somehow managed to make it through the afternoon. He left at 5 sharp, which earned him a truly astonished look. He barely managed to stop himself from improvising yet another excuse. 

Once home, he tried to eat something, but couldn't really manage. He took a shower, carefully thinking only good thoughts, and considered what to wear. He finally settled for jeans and a white cotton shirt with very thin red stripes. No socks. Shoes that wouldn't provide too much of a struggle. He looked in the mirror, very pleased with the effect. Then suddenly realized what he was doing, preparing for the night like it was a first date, when actually... He quickly pushed the thought out of the way. 

He meandered through his apartment, glancing at book titles, picking up this and that, and at some point caught himself humming. That stopped him cold. Jesus fucking Christ, I'm acting like I'm in love, this is *sick*. Maybe another cold shower... Instead, he went to take another look in the mirror, berating himself all the way. 

In his car, on the way to Skinner's apartment, he grew nervous. Very nervous. He remembered more clearly now that his last private encounter with Skinner hadn't exactly been a bed of roses. It had actually been painful, humiliating, and very unnerving, although somehow, when it was over he'd felt like he wouldn't have missed it for the world. One of those big life events that are great to look back on ten years later, but not all that enjoyable while they're happening. What had made his mind twist it into an exotic, erotic night of forbidden pleasures retroactively? Anxiety now threatened to grow into full-fledged panic. He started to hyperventilate, but checked himself just in time. But it hadn't really been that bad, had it? Or had it? Oh sweet Jesus, why can't I ever get things straight? Why does everything get twisted when I look at it, like a bad parody of the Midas touch? Well, there's no way out anyway... 

He parked the car in the underground garage and tried to steady his legs before the elevator arrived. When he rang the door bell of the apartment, the door opened immediately. 

Skinner had also changed into something less formal. It seemed the FBI somehow inspired an informal dress code as well as a formal one; they were dressed almost identically. "Mulder. Come in." They would never get to a first-name basis; in fact, apart from their unorthodox activities a deux, nothing had changed at all. All office rules still applied without exception. 

"Please eat this, Mulder." Skinner handed him a tiny, gray, wrinkly piece of what seemed to be dried cucumber. Mulder eyed it suspiciously. 

"What is it?" He could at least leave the 'Sir' off from time to time. 

"I'll tell you later. For now, it's a controlled substance, and let's leave it at that." 

Mulder put it in his mouth. It was slightly bitter and very tough. For a controlled substance, it tasted pretty bad. Finally, he swallowed it whole.

"Let's go upstairs," Skinner said. 

Mulder walked up the stairs, followed very closely by Skinner. Before he even got to the bedroom, Skinner grabbed him from behind. One arm clasped around his chest, Skinner carefully unbuttoned the shirt with his free hand, then let go to undo the one button that had been covered by his arm. Mulder stood, panting slightly. Skinner pulled down the shirt and dropped it. He ran his hands up and down Mulder's torso, roughly, possessively. Then the arm returned around his chest and Skinner kissed the back of his neck. His other hand slid down and cupped Mulder's crotch. He wouldn't be disappointed. 

Mulder was pushed into the bedroom. The only light came from a candle burning on the bedside table. The room was very warm. "Sit on the bed," Skinner told him. He sat, feeling a little dizzy, woozy, fuzzy... "There's something I want you to watch, Mulder." Skinner moved over to the cabinet by the wall, and opened it to reveal a tv and VCR. He switched it on and started the tape. It appeared to be a documentary of some sort, 'National Geographic Explorer', maybe. There was no sound. Mulder watched. It was a zoo. The camera moved to a large cage with heavy metal bars, then focused on what was inside. It was a large black cat. A very large one. It was obviously bad-tempered, growled at the camera. As Mulder watched, someone's back moved into the field of vision, and lifted something. A dart struck the animal's hind leg. The cat jumped, roared, staggered a few steps, and fell. A door opened in the back wall and two white-clad figures appeared. 

Skinner sat behind him, gently stroking his back, his flanks, his arms, tracing lines along his spine. Mulder had forgotten why he had ever been so nervous. He sighed, then leaned back. Skinner pushed him upright again; he'd have to keep his own balance for a while. 

Now the camera was inside the cage. One of the men in white prodded the animal to check that it was out, then looked into its mouth. The other spread out a canvas tarp, and together they hauled the cat onto it. Its foot pads were almost the size of their hands. They tied its legs together, then pulled its tail around and tucked it underneath the rump. 

Mulder felt Skinner's tongue move up and down his back, licking his neck, pulling gently at his earlobes, pushing inside the shell... Why the fuck am I watching this ridiculous cat? He sighed, stretched his back under Skinner's hands, his head swimming. 

One of the men on the screen pulled something from a canvas bag. It was a black, cigar-shaped thing, about eight inches long, with a little handle on the end. He knelt down next to the hind legs of the cat, then inserted his finger into the animal's anus. 

Mulder felt a lance of electricity go straight into his gut. He gasped. The man moved his finger around, then withdrew it. He checked the device, then bent down again, and gently, with twisting, pulsing movements, inserted it into the cat's rectum. 

Mulder inhaled audibly, so sharply that he almost choked. His erection pulsed against his fly, straining painfully. He shifted uncomfortably on the bed. Skinner put his arms around him until he sat still again. He couldn't take his eyes off the screen. 

The man appeared to turn a knob on the handle of the device, then stood up. The camera stayed on the cat. Slowly, its hind quarters began to move. Mulder's back tensed. He saw the animal's penis emerge from its sheath, slowly, growing larger by the second. Mulder felt his heart pound against his rib cage. It's a fucking *cat*, he told himself, but it didn't have any effect. 

The cat's muzzle began to twitch. A white-gloved hand entered the picture, holding a little cylinder. The cat's erection, twitching, was shoved into the open end of it. Mulder winced and leaned forward. Skinner held him from behind, stroking, caressing, then inserted a hand between his legs, spread them slightly, and traced the inner seam of his jeans. Mulder's mouth was very dry, he tried to swallow but couldn't. Skinner opened his fly and put a large hand inside. Mulder moved against it, almost without noticing. 

The cat's flanks trembled, its hind legs moved slightly. Then a tremor ran through its entire body, the penis jumped, and Mulder let out a low moan. Skinner held him tightly until he relaxed again. He got up to switch off the VCR. 

Mulder hugged himself, incredibly aroused, slightly unfocused, slightly shocked. 

Skinner pulled him up, then pulled down his jeans and boxers. The shoes came off spontaneously. Skinner pushed him down on the bed, rolled him on his side, and then stretched out full length behind him. He continued his ministrations, being very gentle all the time. 

Mulder was floating in a fine white mist of warmth and lust. He had never felt so good in is life. He felt like purring. His upper leg was being bent at the knee, its weight rolling him over slightly. He felt a finger entering him, spreading warmth and little silver trickles. The finger was withdrawn. 

Skinner bent over him and whispered, "You know you're really a cat". 

Mulder knew. He was strong, sinuous, powerful, lithe and very well-balanced. His skin glowed and rippled when he moved the muscles underneath. The sun was shining on him, warming him. He was going to father beautiful children, with glossy, black fur, strong teeth and long tails. 

He felt the device opening him, forcing its way inside, stretching him. He shifted to get more comfortable. The pressure stopped. He felt a slight movement, then the earth swallowed him. 

The sensation was incredible. Huge waves of liquid heat formed in his rectum, forced their way through his body, crashed out of him, into the room, then were reflected off the walls, came back and interfered with new waves. He was awash in a turbulent sea of warmth. He began to moan, overwhelmed by the intensity of the feeling. A red haze formed before his eyes. He tried to stretch out, to make his body big enough to contain the storm raging through it. His hips made slow fucking motions. He was too absorbed to notice. 

Skinner moved against him, wrapped his arms around him to steady his thrashing body, then reached around and enclosed Mulder's cock in his hand. He applied some pressure. There was a slight gasp, then Mulder tried to thrust against Skinner's hand, but it was too close to his body for that. He began to writhe, then to struggle, suddenly desperate to come. Skinner held him, holding his cock in a vise-like grip. Then he quickly withdrew the device with his other hand. 

Mulder cried out in despair. His whole body was tingling with the sensation, his skin electrified, his muscles tense to the breaking point. He had been incredibly, painfully close to coming, for a long time. He buried his face in the sheets to stifle a sob. 

Skinner pulled him onto his side again and carefully, gently pushed inside. Mulder jerked. The contrast between the consecutive penetrations was almost unbearable. First the oily, weightless, electric warmth, then Skinner's hard, domineering presence. The sudden intense pressure on his prostate would have made him come immediately, if it hadn't been for the hand blocking his way. 

Skinner began moving inside him, intensifying the urge, forcing tight moans from him, and desperate little pelvic movements. Then, suddenly, the hand around his cock withdrew, and he tumbled into his climax, made even more intense by the surprise. He gasped for breath. His heart skipped several beats. The world darkened, then reappeared, and Mulder lay shaking. 

Skinner was still holding him, both arms now wrapped around his chest, waiting until he emerged out of the abyss. He leaned back against the other man's body and slowly calmed down. Skinner began moving again and he pushed back, grateful for one familiar sensation in an alien world, absurdly happy when he sensed the approaching orgasm. He was suddenly overcome with a melting tenderness, wanting to turn around and cradle Skinner in his arms. Instead, he concentrated on the other's climax. He felt the cock inside him twitch, one last desperate thrust, then a slight widening of the girth that stretched him wider, finally the deep sighs and shudders that signified release. Skinner's heavy weight leaned against him. 

Mulder stayed very still, sensing, empathizing, once again very aroused. Would a grown male cat weigh as much? More? He twisted out of the other's grip, climbed over the motionless body and then, finally, took Skinner in a bear hug, taking unprecedented liberties, nuzzling his neck, smelling him, rubbing his forehead against the wide back, crooning. No purring. Amazingly, purring still didn't work. 

When he woke up he found Skinner looking at him. He couldn't stand it for very long and turned on his back, looking at the ceiling. 

"Are you all right?" 

"Yes." 

"It was peyote." 

He stared back now. Peyote? What did that have to do with it? Then he remembered the little piece of dried cucumber Skinner had made him eat. "Are you saying that... this cat thing..." He remembered his extreme empathy with the big black cat. Peyote. He sighed. Skinner was saying something. Please shut up. He really didn't want to think. He wanted to be a cat. A big black cat with foot pads as large as a hand, with velvet ears and yellow eyes. 

END

Remember: would love to hear from you...

 

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Sun, 24 May 1998  
Mulder/Skinner.

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The Grey Zone, part 3: Melting, by Palinurus  
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Much as he tried to fight it, it seemed to Mulder like half of his life was spent either preparing for or recovering from the Thursday night rituals. On Fridays he usually couldn't concentrate; his attention would wander, jump this way and that without rhyme or reason. His weekends were spent in isolation, mulling over the events of the preceding Thursday night, endlessly going over the scene, and trying fruitlessly to get a rational handle on what was happening. On Monday, he'd almost be his usual self again, except for a slight tension in his stomach that reminded him that life was not normal at present. But he could function, reassure Scully that he wasn't going to crash, and get some work done. 

On Thursday morning, the tension would start to rise. By lunchtime, he'd be high on adrenaline, not eating, trying hard to muster interest for whatever he was working on. After lunch the battle would be as good as lost, and he'd spend the remains of the working day trying to act normal, so as not to make Scully suspicious again. It was an exhausting routine. But he never questioned it; quitting was not an option. Instead, he tried to fold his life around it, to accommodate its awkward, bulky presence as well as he could. 

This Thursday was no different. He was sitting at his desk, idly flipping through a report, playing with his pen, when he noticed that Scully was looking at him again. Any day now she would start asking questions, and he would not be able to lie, at least not well enough to satisfy her - he would make a few pathetic attempts that would piss her off, she would push a bit harder, then a bit harder yet, and he would crumble, and confess. And then what? It was imponderable. Like almost everything else at present. But he somehow couldn't move his mind beyond acknowledging that he was on a highway to disaster. It was going to end badly, it was inevitable, and that was the whole extent of his plans for the future. 

On top of all that, there was still no word from Skinner. Usually Skinner would be in touch in the morning to announce the schedule for the night. There would be a phone call or an email, always short, to the point, stating the place and time he was expected. It was now almost three, and Mulder felt slighted, upset, humiliated because he was upset, and frustrated because he went around in the same ridiculous circles every week, dancing to the same tune, played with infinitely effective variations by his boss. 

His computer beeped. Email - from Skinner. Relief flooded through him, followed by apprehension. His stomach contracted, and he started to sweat. He looked away, staring into the distance, trying to calm himself, and then to suppress his irritation at his reaction. It was so predictable. The same sequence of emotions, with the same intensity, again and again, every fucking week, as if he were a puppet on a string. It enraged him, but that didn't change anything. He forced himself to read three more pages of the report he was reading, before opening at Skinner's message. It was one line long, no greeting, no pleasantries, nothing but the barest essentials. It said, "Agent Mulder, please report to my office at 6 p.m." 

Office. That was weird. It had been office once, but that was a while ago - these days it was usually home. Why would it be office this time? The possibilities there were severely limited. Things could break; things could get dirty; and lots of things simply weren't available in offices. Was it back to basics? That might be interesting, but it could also be done at home. And why 6? It was usually 8 or 9, better hours because the evening slipped seamlessly into the night, while at 6, there were so many pitfalls to avoid before night would finally take care of things. It didn't make sense. 

He could think of only one plausible reason for 6 p.m. at the office: tonight was off. The thought was chilling. There had not yet been a single exception to the Thursday night schedule, but it had never been explicitly adopted. It could be broken at any time if Skinner decided it did not fit his plans. His dependence, his meek acceptance of whatever Skinner had planned, was part of the agreement. He kept his Thursday nights free and waited for a word from his boss.

And then - why not simply send no message at all? That would have been very bad for his nerves too, but it was more of a Skinner thing than to send for him at 6 just to tell him that tonight was off. There must be another reason for making him come over. And again, as far as he could see there could only be one plausible reason. 

His mind churned away, walking winding paths, detours, following clues that he hardly realized were there. And trying to avoid the black hole sitting in the center of his universe. But he gravitated towards it anyway. He didn't seem to have any impulsion; he was drifting. He could briefly make himself believe he was changing course, by twisting this way and that, but in the end reaction canceled action, and it was futile. There was no way to escape the gaping emptiness that lay ahead. 

It wasn't just off for tonight; it was off for good. And Skinner was going to tell him, today, at 6 p.m. 

For several moments, he had difficulty breathing. He broke out in a sweat and began to feel sick. He got up quickly and made his way to the bathroom. His nausea had almost disappeared when he got there, but he felt weak and shaky. He sat on the toilet seat, taking deep breaths, trying to calm down, to think. 

Skinner had probably started it as a game. Maybe not even that; maybe he had just wanted to vent his frustration, his anger at being forced to take risks to protect his wayward agent. But the unexpectedly enthusiastic response had taken him by surprise. Skinner had been charmed, tempted, and before he had time to come to his senses, what he had intended to be a one-time quirk had turned into a shared, ritualized madness. An addictive madness, growing stronger and more intense with every new encounter, almost an obsession. A powerful, dangerous dance, breaking new ground, bringing new heights every week. 

Or so Mulder had thought. 

The six o'clock office message put everything in a radically different light.

He had never stopped to consider that he might be the only one who had played the game whole-heartedly, who had allowed himself to be swept up, swept away by its dark, heady charm. Never realized that Skinner might have different feelings about it, could have regarded it as an increasing burden, a responsibility that he had to bear alone. Skinner had always been the director of the show. Mulder had only been an actor. A willing instrument. Not even that; he'd just been himself. 

Himself. Sometimes it made him afraid to look in the mirror. He was sure he knew exactly what had finally put Skinner off. 

It had felt so right, so perfect, so completely fulfilling. But through another set of eyes, it would probably look like a scene from a bad porn movie. His abandon, his total surrender, his yielding to Skinner's every whim - it was obscene. Undignified. He was sure Skinner had not expected it, had not been prepared for it, and by now probably regretted ever having started the whole thing. He must be looking for a way out that would leave them both a vestige of dignity. 

He pictured the scene in Skinner's office. Skinner would look at him, very sincere, concerned, his bad news face. He would patiently go over the past, explain why things could not go on, even though they had both very much - no, he wouldn't lie about it, that wasn't like him. He would come up with very good reasons for stopping the liaison. And there were many, many very good reasons. But none of the very good reasons he would mention would be the true reason: Skinner had lost interest, and by now was probably disgusted by the whole thing.

And Mulder would want to go down on his knees, like a bitch, his ass up in the air, and beg Skinner to fuck him. 

A new adrenaline rush swept through him, making him groan out loud. The sound reverberated against the tile walls. He held his head in his hands. You idiot. You blind, twisted fool. 

It has to stop. Look what it's doing to me. 

But the thought made him want to wail with misery. 

After a long time, he left the stall. He washed his face, drank some water, and tried not to look at himself in the mirror. He didn't know what he looked like, but he felt like death. Hopelessly, he went back to the cramped office. Scully was looking at some slides on the viewer. She looked up when he came in, the concern so obvious that she didn't even bother asking. 

"Um, Scully, I'm not feeling too good, I think I'll go home for a while and try to sleep some. I guess I must have eaten something wrong." Excuses. 

After a brief silence, she asked, "Do you want me to give you a ride?" 

"Nono, it's not that bad, just bad enough to make me useless here. I'll manage." 

She was going to insist, but he was wound up enough to rebuff her, even raising his voice - he felt bad doing it, but there was no other way. 

He did go home. There was enough time to shower and take a couple of pills against his headache. By then, his mind had become almost blank -there was only a dim feeling of unease, vague but threatening, a black, looming presence that he tried to ignore. He had some hope that he might be able to accept the verdict without collapsing, to manage a dignified exit. And, from time to time, a tiny little flicker of hope that things might go differently.

He parked the car away from the building, not wanting to risk meeting Scully or have her spot his car. The building was almost deserted, which was a good thing - he was quite sure he didn't look very normal, and people would either ask questions or gossip. Kim had left. He knocked on Skinner's door, and opened it almost before he had heard the familiar reply. Afraid he'd lose his nerve in the interval. 

Skinner looked up when he entered. 

Mulder's mind worked at double speed. He doesn't look very tense. He looks surprised. Must be because I'm early. But... now he's starting to look concerned; what... 

"Are you feeling OK, Mulder?" 

"Eh, sir, I eh... in fact, I'm... eh, yes, I'm OK." He should have expected that question, of course; it was the most obvious introductory question for a bad news talk.

"You don't look OK. You look like you've seen a ghost. Sit down." 

Maybe I have, Mulder thought, and sat. 

Skinner got him a glass of water, then leaned back against his desk. "Better?" 

"Eh, yes, thank you..."

Skinner looked at him inquisitively for several moments. "If you'd rather bail out tonight, I won't hold it against you."

Mulder looked at him, not comprehending. Bail out? What did that mean? His mind had been in overdrive a minute ago; now it appeared to have stopped working altogether. 

"I mean, if you're not feeling up to it, we can postpone the whole thing until next week," Skinner elaborated. 

"Oh no, sir, I just, eh, I'm a little tired, that's all, but it's not serious, I'm sure I can... I'll be fine, I just need a minute..." He was breathless. 

"Agent Scully called me a while ago and told me that you had gone home, feeling sick." 

Scully... why the hell... Oh Christ, the email. He had left the note open on the screen, and she had apparently seen it. He was angry with himself for the oversight, already forgetting how close to death he'd felt earlier that day. "I did go home, and I slept a little. I feel better now." Lame, lame, lame, but it didn't matter anymore. His stomach fluttered with excitement, with elation.

Skinner looked at him closely for what seemed like minutes, making him squirm in his chair. Finally, he appeared to be satisfied. Then he sighed softly and said, "Well, I guess I'll just just have to take your word for it." Straightening, he walked around the desk and turned to face Mulder again. In a stronger voice, he continued, "Agent Mulder, the reason I asked you to come here at this hour is that I have an appointment later tonight, so our time is limited. Please undress." 

It took some time before the words registered, then a few more before he became convinced that he had not misheard them. He waited a few seconds before getting to his feet; even so, he swayed slightly. But the dizziness passed quickly, and he began to undress. 

Skinner watched, his doubtful look slowly dissipating. "Stand in front of the desk and face the window," he said, moving away from it. 

Mulder stood, too overwhelmed to be nervous, to anticipate the coming events, to think about anything at all. The noise inside his head baffled him and unnerved him slightly. He looked at his reflection in the dark window, his erection just visible above the surface of the desk, slightly warped by irregularities in the glass. He watched the mirror image of Skinner take off his jacket and hang it over the back of the chair, then walk over to him. 

At the first touch, his knees nearly buckled, and he suddenly came back to the present. Skinner's hands roamed over his shoulder blades, pushed him slightly forward over the desk, until he had to lean on his hands. The hands felt cold to his heated skin, raising gooseflesh. He shivered slightly. They ran over his back, lightly, slowing in places, gently caressing him. For a while, he looked in wonder at the distorted reflection of his boss in the window, abstractly thinking that Skinner looked like he was concentrating on a complicated case. Then he let his head fall down, gradually relaxing, warming up under the massage. All thoughts began to slow down, grow dim, lose their urgency as he stood, swaying slightly with the pressure of the hands, moving with them.

The hands suddenly disappeared, though he thought he could still feel the radiated warmth of Skinner's body behind him, very close. There was the sound of a zipper, followed by motionless silence. He very much wanted to lean back, but did not. He also resisted the temptation to look over his shoulder, looked at his hands on the desktop instead. Good hands, nice to look at, very functional. He dimly realized that this was a rather strange thought for the occasion, that his brain still wasn't working as it should. He looked back on the window, looked at his reflection staring back at him inscrutably. He saw Skinner standing behind him, looking down. Still silent, not moving, fully dressed. He was cold, a slight uncontrollable tremor in his arms and shoulders. The situation felt so unreal that it made him dizzy. He focused on the impressive display of city lights outside in a semi-conscious effort to escape from the surreal office space.

At last, the hands resumed their slow, calming touches. The cold receded, and he allowed himself to be lulled back into his waking dream, not thinking, aware only of the touches and the need to stay upright. The warming touches again began to exert their numbing, relaxing influence. Still focused on the city lights outside, he began to feel almost as if he would float out the window, comfortable, comforted, supported by two disembodied hands that would caress him, stroke him, keep him warm and safe on his flight above the Washington skies.

The strong hands enclosed his hips, steadying him, holding him in place. Mulder fell back into his body, his heart skipping a beat, then pumping at double speed, supplying too much blood. The trance was shattered, anticipation and apprehension were back. He stood stock-still. Skinner's hands were the only point of contact between the two bodies until he slowly leaned forward, his cock invading Mulder's anal cleft, spreading the flesh of the buttocks, until the slippery head came to a stop against his anus. 

Mulder tensed up, breathing rapidly. It was too soon, this was going to hurt badly. He remembered how much he had wanted this to happen - but he suddenly couldn't remember what was supposed to be the good part. He tried to relax again, but his body was not listening. It must have become numb from the rapid succession of contradictory commands. Mutiny would probably be next, and no wonder. He pushed his hips forward against the desk, as far away from the threat as he could, and braced himself against the impending pain. 

But the pressure didn't change. Skinner just waited, moving with the body in front of him, exerting slight pressure to stay in place, barely noticeable. His hands went to Mulder's back again, now teasing rather than soothing. He touched lightly, following the outlines of the muscles, tracing the ribs all the way to the front, then back again. His cock maintained steady contact. 

Mulder was breathing shallowly, his jaws clenched, still prepared for a sudden penetration. But Skinner's hands made it difficult to keep his guard up. His concentration was fading again, his mind wandering. He decided that there might be a good part to this after all. He stretched his back, mentally following the hands, trying to inhabit only the parts of his back that were warmed by them. His body couldn't decide between tension and relaxation, and his mind had no say in the matter. He was sagging forward, the weight on his hands was getting heavier. His wrists were beginning to hurt. He wanted to collapse onto the surface of the desk, to let go, to just await what was going to happen, to leave everything to Skinner. To stop thinking. 

The pressure point between his buttocks was slowly warming up. 

Skinner pulled him upright against his chest and held him up, with one arm wrapped around his stomach. He kissed Mulder's neck, gently, with great concentration. 

Mulder's knees were getting weak. He leaned back against Skinner, and though he tried to keep his head up, it was getting too heavy. He let it roll backwards, onto Skinner's shoulder. He was grateful for the supporting arm. The warm spot around his anus was expanding, and getting warmer from the constant gentle pressure. Small concentric circles of pleasure were emanating from that spot. His bones slowly turned to jelly. 

Skinner's free hand roamed Mulder's chest, pausing at a nipple, gently pulling, scratching it with a nail. It traveled down, circling his navel, then up again to the other nipple. His mouth was kissing and sucking Mulder's shoulder, his neck, his ear. His cock was still pushing gently but insistently against the warm spot, which was beginning to soften. 

The room felt very warm now, and Mulder was melting. His knees had already turned liquid, his shoulders were slumping, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides. His anus was melting, the sphincter loosening up. His blood felt like it was about to boil. He tried to keep his head up, but it didn't want to stay up. The tongue caressing his neck, the hand playing with his nipples, the steady pressure against his ass, the increasing heat - his mind was getting foggy. He closed his eyes and began to moan softly. 

The hand moved down, gingerly. It touched Mulder's throbbing cock, a light touch, but it made him gasp. His hips would have bucked if the hand hadn't been there to stop the movement. He forced himself to stay still, not wanting to break the magical contact. It took all he had not to follow Skinner's hand as it slowly moved up and down the shaft, collecting moisture. It was an exquisite torture. Mulder stood very still, panting, praying he would be able to control himself. 

Skinner's fingers were everywhere, teasing, taunting, testing his limits, daring him to move. The world had receded to a yellow-white line on the horizon. The heat was almost unbearable now. Mulder tried to keep still with all his might. He was so aroused that he felt something might snap at any moment, like an over-stretched piano wire. A trickle of sweat ran down his spine, into the crack of his ass. The sound of his heartbeat, the noise of his own harsh breathing tainted the stillness, the glass-like perfection of the moment. Fingers were stroking his hip, his thigh, moving inside, slowly up and down. A muscle began to twitch. He shifted slightly, but the involuntary movement continued. His anus, sensitized by the constant pressure, had turned into a gaping hole, a desperate vacuum, wide open, itching, aching for penetration. 

Unable to wait longer, panting like a packhorse, he began to push back slowly, impaling himself on Skinner's cock. 

It felt cool, like marble, a sharp contrast to the fire it had created earlier. His flesh parted easily, welcoming Skinner, embracing him, wrapping itself tightly around him. He cried out at the sensation. The sound came out as a breathy "Ohhh...", as if he was about to swoon; Skinner's arm tightened around him. A column of soothing, smooth stone entered him, filled the aching void to perfection. He pushed back further, as far as he could, then stood back-to-chest, leaning back against Skinner, trembling, heaving. Light-headedness forced him to pause for a moment. Then he moved forward slowly and impaled himself again, this time with more force, biting his lip to keep the desperate, strangled sounds inside that were trying to fight their way out. 

Skinner's breathing became labored. He placed a hand on the desk surface for support and leaned against Mulder's back, pushing him forward. He began a slow, deep, steady thrusting that immediately set Mulder on edge. His free hand trailed idly along the length of his cock, stroking it, feeling it pulse strongly in response. He enclosed it with his full hand and pumped several times. 

Mulder cried out and started to come. And was immediately cut off by a strong, almost painful grip around the base of his cock. The cry stuck in the back of his throat, his loins burning with a slow, devastating fire. He slumped down on the table, whimpering, "Oh Christ... oh no..." Skinner's hand came up and closed over his mouth.

The slow, relentless thrusting went on. 

Mulder scrambled back up. He caught another look of himself in the window, his body moving with the rhythm of Skinner's thrusts, his eyes half closed, his face flushed and strained. He looked like a survivor of a major disaster, stunned, shell-shocked. For a second, he was shocked by the image, but the new waves of arousal quickly washed the shame out of his mind. He felt like a small piece of driftwood, pushed around by Skinner's unpredictable hands, yearning for the shore, but knowing he had no say in when he would get there. The tension again began to rise slowly. He opened his mouth to make breathing easier and did his best to stifle the small sounds rising up from his throat.

In a flash, he realized that Skinner was staring at him fixedly. He stood still for a second, staring back, transfixed, fascinated. Then he began to push back again; and again, he immediately felt Skinner's hand on his cock. He thrust into it, desperately, gritting his teeth against another mind-shattering orgasm just out of his reach. When it came, he tried to writhe out of Skinner's grip, unable to control himself. It didn't work. He was almost sobbing in frustration, now leaning on his lower arms, his head in his hands. 

Skinner's thrusting never faltered. 

Once again the slow approach began. His cock, helpless in Skinner's knowing hands. His rectum being stretched, filled, his prostate sending electric shocks to his brain with every thrust. He couldn't bear a third time. His heart would give up. He would turn around and strangle Skinner. The waves came faster and faster, and he closed his eyes, tensed up completely. He moaned with every breath and couldn't stop himself. He felt the pressure of Skinner's hand on his cock increase again, felt a clump of hot rage gather in his stomach, and was about to plant an elbow in Skinner's stomach. 

Then, suddenly, he exploded inward, a tremor no less intense than an orgasm but totally unfamiliar, slow, rippling, curling around inside, making his heart skip. His abdomen had become liquid. Melting. He curled up, then stretched out again, gasping like a drowning man, until the waves receded, leaving nothing behind but a pleasant warmth. 

He was dimly aware that Skinner came almost immediately after that, felt his boss' weight ease down on top of him, flattening him against the desk. The weight immediately caused a pang of anxiety - it was over, they would separate, another week would have to pass. Not yet, not yet, please, just a few more minutes, until I can stand on my own legs again, and think about facing the world... 

But the weight stayed in place, heavy, sweaty, motionless. Then it lightened it bit. He felt his sides encased by Skinner's upper arms, and then a tiny warm tickle on the side of his neck, just below his ear. At first, it was only warm breath. The intimacy of the feeling was overwhelming. Mulder tried not to breathe, for fear of destroying it. It made him acutely aware of the rest of his skin, pleasantly warm where his body was enclosed between Skinner's body and the desk, superficially cold everywhere else. The cold couldn't really touch him - not yet.

The almost imperceptible breath was followed by the warm wetness of Skinner's lips and tongue. Mulder clenched his teeth to keep silent; the only sound he would be capable of making now would be something like -crooning. The unexpected sweetness made him so happy it was almost impossible to keep still. His face flushed, he balled his hands into fists, but he didn't move.

One of Skinner's hands pushed against his stomach. He sucked it in to make room, and Skinner slid the hand, palm up, between his body and the surface of the desk. For a few moments he kept it still, then one finger began to move, creating another exquisite sensation. This time, Mulder was too late to prevent the escape of a small, strangled moan; but it didn't seem to scare the sensations away, and beyond that, he was too overjoyed to care. These touches went beyond mere sex. They had no function, no purpose. They felt like affection. 

They were gifts falling from heaven. 

Skinner's other hand moved to his thigh, lingered there for a while, then slowly traveled up to his hip. There he grabbed it with his, pressed it against his skin, held it in place for as long as it would stay. Skinner kissed his neck, his ears, thoughtfully and very softly, and Mulder felt like he would disintegrate into a small, salty puddle of happiness, of euphoria.

It couldn't last. He sensed the change, and tried to make his stupefied mind retract into his own body before part of it would come loose with the separation. Skinner appeared to wait until the process was completed, then got up and arranged his clothing. "I have to go now," he said, getting his jacket, and Mulder looked at him as if he were an apparition from another world. Go now... "What was that? What happened to me?" he asked stupidly. 

"That was a retrograde ejaculation. Very convenient for office use." Skinner replied, "You'll notice that you have some reserve left, but I'm sure we'll find some use for that some time later. I'm very sorry that I have to leave, Mulder. Please lock the door behind you." And he left.

End


End file.
